


Or Don't

by coricomile



Category: The Breakfast Club (1985)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-09 06:31:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12882138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: "Is there a… a… Club," Brian says after he's finished coughing. "For. You know. This." He waves his arm again. John knocks it away. Brian grins, dopey and red eyed, and John thinks about stupid baby animals. "We should make one."





	Or Don't

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nausicaa_lives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nausicaa_lives/gifts).



Someone's been fucking in John's spot. John kicks a filthy condom out of the way, scraping up mud hidden under the top layer of frost on the ground, and leans back against the creaky, rusting under structure of the bleachers. One day, he thinks as he pulls out his rolling papers, the whole thing is going to collapse under the weight of the idiots so bored with their lives they have to watch high schoolers chase a ball. He just hopes he's close enough to see them all crash to the ground. 

He rolls four joints, barely able to feel his fingertips as he licks the paper for the last one. Winter is shit and he's got to find actual gloves sooner rather than later, but he can deal with it for another couple of weeks. He tucks three of the joints into a stained, wrinkled baggy and sticks the fourth into the corner of his mouth. If he's got to wait out in this shit, he might as well get stoned. Jacobs owes him from the last time, and if he doesn't pay this time, John's going to _make_ him pay. 

There's nothing left but a roach when John hears the familiar scuffle of some sad bastard getting hounded by Bill for their petty cash. When John had been fourteen, brand new to the hell of Shermer High, Bill had been a junior. He'd taken John under his wing, taught him how to hustle, how to do the math for splitting up baggies, introduced him to a grower that didn't cut their weed with oregano. John had wanted to be him so badly back then he'd ached with it, stupid and young and hungry for scraps of attention. It's embarrassing. 

Now, Bill's on his third trip through senior year, getting by on shaking down brace-face freshmen for their lunch money. He's pathetic, on his way to being just another one of the drunks that sit out in front of the corner store begging for his next beer. John wonders sometimes if it's all inevitable. If all the crap is already written into his blood the same way his fucked up nose is, or the shit-brown color of his hair is.

"I don't-" Bill's target says, his voice squeaking a little. "My mom packs my lunch. I don't even have lunch money." There's something about the weird, stuttery cadence of the voice that makes John look up. "I think Big Pete's is hiring. You know Big Pete's? Across from the- yeah. I bet you can, like, clean up tables or something. My sister worked for him-" 

Brian keeps talking, his voice steadily rising in pitch as Bill gets closer to him, like if he flaps his lips enough he'll take off. He drops his backpack when Bill grabs ahold of his jacket collar, lifting him off his feet. The tips of Brian's sneakers drag through the frost, his arms shooting up to latch onto something for stability. John sucks down the last hit off his roach, crunches it under the heel of his boot, and goes to save the dweeb from himself.

"He doesn't have money, Bill," John says as he makes his way up behind them, hooking his arm over Bill's shoulders. He taps the side of his loosely curled fist under Bill's adam's apple. "Some people have mothers that love them."

"Back off, Bender," Bill says. He sneers when he says John's name, his back rumbling against John's shoulder. 

He says it like an insult, like he's clever. John wants to remind him that the single time they'd gotten their dicks out together, he hadn't been the one on his knees, but Brian's staring at them, mouth gaped open and eyes wide. John twitches his thumb up into the jut of Bill's adams apple and leaves it there as a warning. Bill might have been the one to teach him how to fight, but John's grown up a lot over the years. Bill isn't quite as big as he used to be, and John's always got anger bubbling under his skin that needs to be worked out. 

"I hear Big Pete's is hiring," John says, leaning in to talk right into Bill's ear. He smells like smoke and sweat and his fingers twitch in Brian's jacket. John's going to miss his appointment with Jacobs, but apparently he's got to save this idiot from himself. The brain owes him at least one free English essay. "Why don't you see if he'll let you play with the sausages?" 

Brian makes a sound when Bill drops him, but John's too busy ducking Bill's wide, wild headbutt to really pay any attention to him. Fighting Bill isn't easy, but for that five minutes everything is clear as crystal, so sharp John feels like he'll cut himself on reality as much as on Bill's chipped front teeth. His skin aches from the cold and he's still buzzing from the joint, but John doesn't need to be at one hundred percent to throw good punches. 

Bill gets one solid punch to John's cheek, his knuckles brushing just past John's nose. It'll bruise like a bitch, but nothing's broken. John tackles Bill around the waist and kneels on his chest, sneering down into Bill's spotty, pale face. He wants to spit on that sharp cheek, wants to smash his head into the pointed peak of Bill's nose and draw blood, but Brian's still watching, standing there with his backpack dangling from one hand instead of running off like someone with any fucking sense. 

"Fuck off home to mommy," John says, patting Bill's jaw with an open hand. He digs his knee into Bill's gut as he stands back up, a vicious, ugly feeling crawling into his chest when Bill grunts. 

"I should have let you fucking get pounded, you shit," Bill gasps on the ground. 

"Should have," John agrees. He grabs the hood of Brian's coat and drags him away toward the parking lot. The school day isn't over, but fuck it. It's not like one more day out of classes is going to hurt him, and Brian has enough smarts to go around. 

"I have geometry," Brian says as John steers them away from Mrs. Waldorf's classroom window. "We have a test on Thursday."

"Suck it up," John says. His knuckles are starting to ache, but he keeps his hand clenched in the soft cotton of Brian's jacket. If Brain goes back, Bill will probably send him to the hospital just to keep up his bullshit image, and for some reason John doesn't want that to happen. 

"Oh," Brian says. Maybe he finally gets it, or maybe he just doesn't want to piss John off. Either way, he goes wherever John moves him, head swiveling around like he thinks they're going to be caught any second. John's done this dance enough times that he doesn't have to look to remember the steps. "Where are we going?"

"Shut up and find out," John says. When they're off school grounds, he finally lets Brian go. The kid can follow him home or do whatever nerds with free time do on his own. John just wants to go home, ice his knuckles, and smoke another joint. He shouldn't have gotten involved in someone else's shit, and wouldn't have except-

He kind of liked Brian, that one time. Not enough to look for him, but maybe enough not to want him to get pounded into the pavement, anyway. 

Brian follows him all the way home like a lost dog, walking close enough that he keeps bumping into John's side. He apologizes every time, but doesn't move away, which is fucking annoying. When John stops in front of the rundown garbage pile he calls home, Brain walks straight into him, stumbling backwards with a quiet huff.

"Are we buying drugs?" He asks, rocking up onto his toes to look over John's shoulder. "I really don't have any money, and if I did, I don't think I'd want to use it for drugs. I mean, they're not _bad_ , but they're not _good_ , and my mom would definitely kill me-"

"Shut up, brainiac," John says as he rounds the house to get to the back door. His father's car is gone, but he can hear his mother talking back to the TV through the kitchen window, which never really shuts right. It's not even one o'clock in the afternoon, but she already sounds sloshed. Brian jumps when something crashes against the wall, but John doesn't flinch. A broken glass isn't much of anything in the scheme of things.

The basement door doesn't lock, but the old wood is so warped that John has to put his shoulder into opening it. Locks are for people with shit to steal. The most John has is some vintage porn and his stash, both of which are hidden in the back of his closet. The door pops open after two good shoves and John steps back, waving Brian in with a bow. 

"Are we, uh, are we breaking and entering?" Brian asks, hesitating at the top of the stairs. John doesn't shove him down them, but the thought is tempting. 

"Go inside, or go home," he says instead. He's frozen down to the bone, and the basement stays cool all year, but at least they'll be out of the wind. Brian's face has gone totally pink, his eyes a little watery and his hair flying up around his face. It'd be cute if it weren't so tragic. Like a puppy freshly kicked or something. 

"Right, okay." Brian adjusts the straps of his backpack and takes the stairs carefully, disappearing as soon as the door is closed. It's pitch black without the weak sunlight and John thinks about the crooked step at the bottom as he goes down, but- "Ow."

"I didn't save your ass for you to break it in my house," John says. He bypasses the lump at the foot of the stairs and raises his arm up, looking for the dangling chain for the light bulb. 

When it clicks on, Brian is still sitting in front of the stairs, squinting his eyes and rubbing at his knee through his khakis. He looks young in a way John doesn't think he himself ever was. For just a second, John thinks about Brian crying in front of all of them, ashamed of his failures but unashamed to be afraid. Something turns in John's stomach. He ignores it. He did his duty. 

"Thank you for that," Brian says, picking himself up. He's not any sort of graceful in any way, all knees and elbows like a baby deer. "I uh. Thank you. You didn't have to, but I really appreciate it. So." 

"Whatever," John says. He pulls out the rest of the joints and thinks, _fuck Jacobs anyway_. "Wanna smoke?"

"Uh," Brian looks over his shoulder. What a fucking dweeb. "Okay?"

They burn the rest of the afternoon smoking up. Brian's fucking weird and talks too much, but he also hangs on every word John gives back to him, his eyes fixed on John's mouth like he needs to really focus to understand. It's been a long time since someone has paid this much attention to him. John isn't sure how he feels about it. 

"You really don't have any friends, do you?" Brian asks after John's told him about the car he's been fixing up. He's been doing it on his own because he doesn't trust anyone else not to fuck it up. It doesn't even matter that the car isn't his, that he won't get to keep it. If he puts his name on something, he wants it to be good. John's fingers go tight around his roach, the cherry hot enough he can feel it starting to sting his skin. Brian's eyes go wide, his big damn mouth falling open. "Wait, I mean. Is there a… a…." 

He waves his arm in a loose arc, like it's supposed to mean something. His hand looks huge hanging off his fragile, stick thin wrist. It would be easy to snap in half. John takes another drag and blows the smoke into Brian's face. It's dirt weed, shit that Scott could barely pawn off, but John's had enough that he can feel the buzz at the back of his skull. His knuckles don't ache anymore and the cold has become more annoyance than pressing concern. There's times when he gets why the piece of shit he calls Dad self-medicates so heavily. If John's still smoking four times a day when he's forty just to escape his shitty life, he'll throw himself into traffic. 

"Club," Brian says after he's finished coughing. "For. You know. This." He waves his arm again. John knocks it away. Brian grins, dopey and red eyed, and John thinks about stupid baby animals. "We should make one."

"Sure, Brainiac," John drawls. He steals the last half of the joint Brian's been wasting between his long, skinny fingers and finishes it off with one strong pull. "Like you need another club to join."

He didn't realize at the time that Brian was serious. Probably he should have known, but hindsight is 20/20.

\---

Brian shows up at John's spot behind the bleachers the next Thursday, his backpack dangling off one arm, looking like a startled rabbit. John's finishing up with Jacobs- account fully and actually paid this time around- and Brian hovers at the edge of the field until Jacobs heads off, already lighting up. If the dumbass gets caught walking down the street with a doobie, it's not John's problem. 

"Hi," Brian says. The cold has turned his entire face pink. "Do you- club? Are we doing that?" 

"It's not a club if there's only two people," John says. He doesn't know how to feel about any of this, but he's never once let that stop him from pushing forward. Confusion, like so many other things, is just a whopping big sign of weakness that John refuses to wear. "Come on. Can't let the future of this good country freeze to death."

Brian chatters about a chemistry project he's been working on the whole way, his hands sketching out the details like he could just pull them straight from the air. He pauses every once in awhile to look at John out of the corner of his eye. John could tell him to shut up. He could just leave him and go home on his own, but it's….. Nice. 

"If you need tutoring in anything, I can help," Brian says when John starts the process of opening up the basement door. "Not that I think you're dumb. I bet you're really good in math, because of shop and all. But if you need it and I'm already here, I can help." 

"You want to get stoned and do homework?" John asks as the door finally pops open. He steps back to let Brian in and waits until he's on the bottom of the landing to shut the door.  
"Yes?" Brian frowns and pulls himself up to his full height. In his puffy coat, he looks a little like a blue penguin. "Yes."

"Why the fuck not," John says. It's not like he's got anything better to do.

\---

John's English grade shoots up. Mrs. Aldridge gives him the stink-eye when he turns in his essay on Wuthering Heights, fully written with actual options. It had been dry and boring and if John ever has to even think about boggy marshes or whatever again, he'll probably jump off a bridge just to save himself from the mind-numbing idiocy, but all of it's worth it when he gets the paper back with a B written onto the front. 

Brian is a surprisingly good tutor. After a joint, he loses the tight, frightened animal look. After two, he'll read out loud to John from whatever book the old bat has assigned to him, acting out the parts with voices and all. John can read- he's not that stupid- but it's more fun to watch Brian pretend. If all his homework got done like this, he'd probably have better grades. It's a good routine. 

"You should teach me to fight," Brian says, slumped half off the couch. He mimes punching the air and laughs when he almost topples to the floor. His hair is puffed up from running his hands through it, big blue eyes glassy. John should probably feel bad for corrupting the bright youth or something, but this is a pretty good look on the dweeb. 

"I'm not going to teach you how to fight," John says. He tries to imagine dorky, skinny Brian throwing a real punch and his stomach sinks. "If someone gives you shit, I'll take care of it. Keep those brains in your head."

"You're like- like my knight or something," Brian says, and immediately bursts into a fit of high-pitched laughter. John thinks he should probably be pissed, but instead he reaches forward and pats the highest part of Brian's hair. It's coarser than it looks. For a split second, John thinks about running his fingers through it. That's just the weed talking, he tells himself as he reaches for the Snack Packs Brian has taken to bringing with him.

"Whatever you say, braincase," he says. He tosses his copy of _The Scarlet Letter_ onto Brian's stomach, opens the pudding, and kicks his feet up on the coffee table he'd made last year in shop. "Read to me."

\---

John shouldn't be surprised the day Brian shows up at his house with a split lip and what looks like the start of a shiner. He shouldn't be, but his heart still leaps into his throat, rage building up under his skin in a way that promises an explosion. The one fucking day he'd bailed out on classes to stay home- the _one day_. Brian's wide eyed, his lip still bleeding and already going fat in the corner. 

"Bill?" John asks through his clenched teeth. 

"Um," Brian says. He flinches when it pulls at the cut and fresh anger temporarily whites out John's brain. He turns away and heads to the too-loud freezer under the stairs. It's mostly empty- as if his mother would ever have enough food in the house to justify needing it- but John's been enough fights that he's taken to keeping a few bags of frozen peas in there. He pulls one out and takes a deep breath. 

"Put that on your face," he says. He can't do shit for the lip, it just has to heal on its own, but the eye might be sort of salvageable. 

"It's cold," Brian says as he holds it up. He looks so fucking small. John's going to break Bill's fingers. Maybe crush his balls, too. He doesn't know who the fuck he is anymore. Six months ago, he would have tipped the kid into a dumpster for the fun of it if his deadbeat friends wanted to. Now-

"No shit." John digs out his good stash. He's been saving it for Christmas- there's nothing quite like the holidays at the Bender household- but he figures now is probably a good time. He'll just find somewhere else to be Christmas day. It won't be the first time he's slept outside. "Do it anyway."

"Sorry," Brian says, hissing as he pushes the peas against his eye. "I didn't know where else to go. My mom is going to kill me."

"I'm going to fucking kill you," John says. He rolls the joints in his lap, letting the delicate work calm him down. He'll deal with everything tomorrow. "What did I say? Someone gives you shit, let me deal with it."

"Sorry," Brian says again, hunched in on himself. 

"Shut up," John says. He lights one joint and hands it over. Brian's wrist is scraped up under the too-short sleeve of his sweater, but his hand looks fine. "You remember everything? You hit your head?"

"No," Brian says after he takes his first hit. He still coughs every time, which should be annoying but John has gotten so used to it he almost likes it. Brian's still a fucking dweeb, even though he's spent more time with John than is good for anyone. "I mean, I didn't hit my head."

"Finish that," John says, nodding at Brian's hand. "Your face is going to hurt like a bitch soon."

"It already does," Brian says, his nose crinkling. It's kind of cute. "You don't have to take care of me. We can, like, do homework now. I don't think I can read to you like this, but I have shop questions."

"Take your medicine and rest that giant brain for ten minutes," John says. He takes his own hit and leans back against the couch. It sags in the middle, some of the springs broken before he'd even gotten it, and it means Brian tilts toward him, their knees knocking. "You can watch me beat the shit out of Bill tomorrow for homework."

"Are you going to teach me to fight?" Brian asks. He sits up straight, the peas moving away from his eye enough to show the place right under his eyebrow that's already turning purple. 

"No," John says. 

"Aw, come on," Brian says. The weed is starting to work; Brian's shoulders have finally stopped being so tight, and the unsplit side of his mouth keeps twitching up. He's such a giggly stoner. "I'm a great learner. I have a 4.0."

"I'm not teaching you how to fight," John says again. If he has to, he'll tie the little shit to his waist to make sure he can't find any more trouble on his own. "I'm going to teach you how to dodge and run." 

"You don't dod-dodge and run." Brian blinks at the half-gone joint in his hand and the peas fall into his lap. Probably it's been enough time anyway. John grabs them and tosses them toward the freezer. They bounce off the stairs, but they'll keep. It's not like he's ever going to eat them. "Oh. That was cold." John snorts. 

"Look at you, you little genius," he says. It's a weak insult, but Brian beams like he's been paid a compliment. He probably thinks he has. 

"Um, please don't punch. I don't know how to punch back," Brian says. He tips forward and presses a messy kiss to the corner of John's mouth. It's not good, but John's heart still leaps up into his throat. Brian stays slumped against him, his hair tickling against John's temple. "I can't sit up."

"Lightweight," John says. Brian's cheek is cold, but his breath against John's mouth is warm. "The fuck did you do that for?"

"I like your hair," Brian mumbles. "And you're smart when you're not being a jerk." He wobbles a little before tipping completely over, plastering himself to John's chest. He's surprisingly heavy. John hesitates before patting Brian's head. 

"I'm cutting you off," he says. If he doesn't remember in the morning, it'll probably be a good thing. 

"My face hurts," Brian mumbles. 

"I know. Come on, you're going to sleep it off." Brian makes a sound like he's dying, but wobbles to his feet when John pushes him up. He's glassy eyed and has managed to reopen the cut on his lip, but he doesn't look any worse for wear. 

John dumps him onto the futon in the corner of the room and helps him get his shoes and jeans off. He's got knobby knees and skinny ankles, and his boxers have polka dots. It's not sexy in any way, but John still thinks about how easily he could get the dweeb to suck him off. It wouldn't be good, but it would probably be enthusiastic. 

"Read to me?" Brian asks. The futon creaks as he turns onto his side, squeezing back against the wall to leave space. "Or, like, kiss me. If you want. Do you want to? I'd like it if you did." 

"When you're not high as a fucking kite," John says. Kissing is for girls, a prelude to getting into their panties. He looks at Brian's wide, sloppy grin- at his big blue eyes focused like lasers right on him- and thinks maybe he does want to. Polka dot boxers and all. "Where's the fucking book?"

John settles down on the edge of the futon with the dog-eared book from Brian's backpack. It isn't from the reading list, but there's a pretty awesome looking car on the front, so John figures it can't be too bad. He feels like a tool reading out loud- he's not going to do voices, that's sinking down way too low- but he kind of gets into the story after a few minutes. Brian is warm next to him, quiet for possibly the first time in his life.It's weird. Good, but fucking weird. 

When Brian passes out, John shoves a rolling paper between the pages to mark his place and gets up to turn the light off. Brian snuffles like a dog when John slides back in next to him. The futon is small, so John curls himself around Brian's back, tucking their knees together. He thinks about Bill- fucking Bill- and feels sick. That could have been him. Could still be him if he's not careful. 

Carefully, slowly, he brushes a kiss over the back of Brian's neck. Maybe, just maybe, he's got a second chance.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to join me on [tumblr ](http://notyourlovesong.tumblr.com)!


End file.
